


Oilslick

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drabbley dorian/john stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oilslick

John wonders if he’s a synthetic _and_ a fucking psychic; every time Dorian turns to him and says, “Would you like to go for a drink?” he would. He really would.

This time it’s a little different; Dorian picks the place, leads him down alleyways under the glowing signs; neon is still a thing, made a comeback some twenty years ago, something about early-21st-century chic; John doesn’t get it. He notes the way it glances off rainpuddles though; he is always confused when Dorian’s skin reflects no light.

John drinks; Dorian pretends to, and rolls his eyes exhaustedly when John uses his official cash card to pay. He’ll write it off as expenses later; he gets drunker and drunker, telling Dorian all the stupid shit he never really went through with his prescribed therapist. How scared he is, how fucking feeble. It doesn’t matter anyway; Dorian remembers everything, but he’s just a bot; he doesn’t judge. However much he pretends to.

There has always been something about Dorian; maybe his human-yet-distant gaze; maybe the way he always makes eye contact, always looks as if he’s about to say something profound, or kiss you. He often does the former, never the latter. Outside the bar, human and weak, John pulls him close, opens his mouth over synthetic lips.

It’s just like kissing a person, really, though the whole time John is afraid Dorian will pull back. Ask him what he’s doing, what he wants. He does pull back, eventually; his lips are wet. He speaks, too, says, “Your heart is beating so _fast.”_

He hails a cab; they get back to John’s apartment, and John is sweating with how much he wants this. He’s been with dudes before – hasn’t everyone? – but it’s been so long since he’s slept with anyone, he doesn’t know if it felt like this. He knows it didn’t every time.

He’s not even that drunk; Dorian is sober but his hands belie his usual good sense; pull at John’s clothes, at his own.

John’s no longer surprised that he has a cock; that he can use it. It feels warm and heavy in his hand; unnaturally smooth, and his tiny apartment is darkened, seems like another world, when Dorian sits on his bed and looks up at him; mouth parted, gaze plaintive. Hair a mess. John’s vision doubles, briefly.

“Can you do it? Will you do it?” he asks, and Dorian smiles that pitying way he does, as if John is somehow _sweet._

“Do you want me to?” the flesh-imitation between his legs has risen; John wonders if he’d get anything out of this. _He_ wants it, wants to sink down on it, wants to fucking _taste_ it, for all the good it’ll do – but for Dorian this could just be play, curiosity. His eyes are always wide; his expression always open, careful. The smile on his mouth right now is just so many layers of code.

But John climbs into his lap anyway; foolhardy, desperate.

He’s relieved there’s nothing extra in Dorian; that, sinking down upon him, it is almost easy to believe that what’s inside him is human. Other bots have attachments; they vibrate, they self-lubricate, they take requests. In early days they were coin-operated, the embarrassingly transactional nature of the thing doing little to deter patrons. But even Dorian’s dick is a mystery; another attempt to humanise him, maybe. John can’t think of another reason, rocking down against him, feeling it sink so deep he wonders if it is possible to die from this; Dorian is clutching his shoulders. He makes soft, vulnerable noise.

Time is askew; he doesn’t know how long he is there, knees around Dorian’s hips, teeth gritted, rocking down over and over onto him, flesh slapping together. Dorian wraps a hand around his cock, and John worries briefly that he’ll be too rough, that he’ll tug; but as always Dorian is gentle in his movements, strangely soft, and when John comes on his chest he blinks. His sigh is overlong; he kisses John’s mouth, still inside him, and as John’s skin starts to cool, he feels the enormity of his crime.

He climbs off; he crawls away to lie beneath the sheets. Dorian watches him the whole time, and John can feel him staring at him in the dark, no doubt reading John’s breathing; knowing that he cannot fall asleep.

He must, eventually; he wakes again in the morning to dim sunlight. Dorian is beside him, staring at the ceiling; one hand just placed, just gently, on the base of his skull.

“You were restless,” Dorian says conversationally, the moment he opens his eyes. His long, synthetic body is fucking beautiful, even now. John supposes it’s meant to be, after all.

John doesn’t say anything. He gets up and goes to the bathroom for a glass of water. He throws up, loudly, for a long time, into the automatic-flush toilet, and it half-sprays him in the face when he pulls away from its sensors to breathe.

He goes back into the bedroom, wiping at his mouth, and Dorian is still there. Pliant on the bed, laid out. John can’t feel anything between his legs; he knows he didn’t clean up, and yet, the only residue on his inner thighs is the familiar slur of lube, almost chemical. “Did you come?” he says. He’s definitely still a little drunk. Dorian lifts his head from staring at the ceiling.

“No,” he admits, with ease. John starts to apologise; Dorian shakes his head and smiles. “Don’t get a complex about it; I can’t.”

There is nothing John can say to that. Dorian opens his mouth again after two terrible, dragging seconds.

“I felt it, though. When you did. It was …it’s nice. I don’t think it’s like you feel it, but I liked it.”

“Good,” he feels like he’s going to be sick again. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

Dorian nods. When John comes out, he’s gone.

He lies in bed all day.

\---

It’s surprisingly easy to get him decommissioned. They work together a couple more times; John endures uneasy silence, the one time Dorian tries to kiss him, and John turns his face away.

He makes up some story about a fight; a fight they really have, where Dorian says something about free will, and John is screaming, yelling too loud to hear him. Dorian doesn’t punch him, would never; John breaks his fucking fist on Dorian’s face, pushes his nose so it bends like putty.

The report is easy. _Reckless behaviour, irrationality._ He’s only describing himself. It’s easy to believe, with Dorian; his kind have already got their reputation.

John gets a brand new partner, so fresh out of the box he keeps thinking it’ll leave a trail of Styrofoam pellets behind. It doesn’t ask questions; it gets snippy when he breaks the rules, and when it hears of Dorian’s incineration, it doesn’t bat an eye. It gives him bullet trajectories, measures blood samples, calculates distance via GPS. It is perfect and functional, and it doesn’t have a cock. Not that John has checked.

He tells himself, after dreams wake him in sweat, that it’s supposed to be perfect; it’s what they were created for. They do everything perfectly, read your responses, and empathize because they must.

They don’t love you, and you don’t love them; they’re just a car with a human face; a computer that smiles, that says “Good morning.” That kisses you, when you come.

On his way home from work one day, there’s a sexbot on the street corner. She leans, languid; her flawless skin is aglow, her lips pursed. He doesn’t wonder what it would be like to fuck her. He already knows.

Her posture says everything; take me, buy me. But her eyes follow him as he passes her. Like she blames him; like she knows. 


End file.
